Leveling Out
by JennyBunny65
Summary: Natasha is about to learn that even the good guys have their secrets...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: The next installment in my little BlackHawk series. I'm really hoping that this one will be longer, so yay for the poeple who commented on the length of the previous stories. Updates will be sporadic. Lyrics are from Lana Del Rey's "Radio" (be honest, who actually listens to the songs mentioned in these stories?) and I, as always, do not own the Avengers.**

_No one even knows how hard life was_

_I don't even think about it now because_

_I've finally found you_

Two hundred and fourteen. That was the number of days Natasha Romanoff – most feared contract assassin of the 21st century – had been aboard the SHIELD Helicarrier. Two hundred and fourteen days of sparring with rookies so far below her level it was laughable. Two hundred and fourteen days of listening to rumors and hushed conversations that cut off the minute she entered a room. Two hundred and fourteen days of being assessed, watched, of trying to _prove_ herself to idiots that wouldn't have caught her if she didn't want to be caught.

She was, to put it lightly, going a bit stir-crazy. Emphasis on the _crazy_.

How else could she explain the inexplicable softening in attitude towards that тупица Clint Barton? To think that she, who had lived among wolves and been raised in their ways (figuratively, of course), now spent her down time watching crappy action movies and swilling beer with SHIELD's finest! Well, it was almost incomprehensible. If her sisters from the Red Room could see her now, no doubt they'd be repulsed by her weakness.

Part of the problem was she just _couldn't get away_ from Barton. She lived on a freaking spaceship, for heaven's sake. The Helicarrier – one of SHIELD's proudest moments in innovation, apparently – hadn't been docked since she'd arrived onboard. How they continued to provide fresh fruits and vegetables, she had no idea. When did they stop to refuel? Where did they get their food? How long could they conceivably fly without landing? Surely 8 months was starting to push its limits.

She was relieved when, on the two hundred and fourteenth day of her self-imposed incarceration (self-imposed because, despite flying at a constant altitude of 50,000 feet, she could find a way to leave if she wanted), Fury called her into his office for the first time since her arrival.

"Congratulations, Agent Romanoff. You are officially employed by the U.S. government." Fury was looking out the window in his office, intensely studying the clouds by the looks of it, and he addressed her without turning around.

She raised an eyebrow (and really, the action lost some potency when no one was looking, but it was an old habit) and asked disdainfully, "And the past 8 months I've been what, exactly? A fugitive seeking asylum?"

Fury turned to glare at her, and Natasha once again wondered how a man with only half as many eyes as she managed to look twice as intimidating. Probably the eye patch added to the menace.

"You've been an experiment. A wild card. We weren't sure if you were worth the trouble to keep. But all your trainers have reported favorably on both your skills and your dedication. So now it's official: you're an agent of SHIELD, with the full benefits and monetary compensation that entails, as well as the reputation. We don't kill 'cause it's fun here – keep that in mind. And don't fuck this up. See Agent Coulson regarding your new identification card and passkey. Dismissed."

Natasha turned to the door, apathetic about this announcement. From the moment she'd accepted Barton's offer, she'd considered herself a SHIELD agent, or else she wouldn't have stuck around this long. The fact that it was now _official_ weighed lightly on her mind – she'd had little want or need for pomp-and-circumstance formalities in her life. At the door, she turned, unable to withhold her curiosity.

"Director Fury," she began and when he raised an eyebrow (even that was more daunting when he did it – perhaps she should invest in an eye patch) she added, "Sir. I was simply wondering if all agents are confined to the Helicarrier for the duration of their employment?"

Fury frowned at her, moving away from the window to take a seat at his desk. He nodded at Natasha to sit in one of the chairs opposite, which she did with minor hesitation. Let it be known that the Black Widow didn't bend completely to anyone's will.

"I was planning on giving you the spiel in a week or so, Agent, but since you've asked, I'll get it out of the way now. Living arrangements at SHIELD: you basically have three options. You can choose to prolong your '_confinement'_ on the Helicarrier – now that you're an active field agent, you'll be given larger quarters instead of the temporary bunk you stay in now. The Helicarrier docks every three months, at which point you'll have the option of staying aboard or leaving. Most agents live here in shifts, spending a quarter of a year here and the rest of the year on the docking base."

"Every three months, sir?" interjected Natasha quickly. If she found out they'd secretly been docking while she was asleep and denying her the chance to touch solid ground…

"Special circumstances, Agent Romanoff," explained Fury impatiently. "The council decided it would be most…prudent to keep the Helicarrier in the air until such time as you had reached full agent status. We're scheduled to land a week from Tuesday."

Natasha did the math in her head. Only 11 more days in this rat cage and she was free, free, _free_!

"Anyway," the Director continued, sounded slightly miffed at the interruption, "your second option is to live on one of SHIELD's twenty bases located throughout the continental United States. The main headquarters of SHIELD is in New York. Not DC," he added, seeing the question on her lips, "because we're not the Secret Service, or the Pentagon, or affiliated with either in any way. We're here to protect the whole country, not just the government.

"Your final option is to live off base – with the condition that your lodging is located within a 25 mile radius from the base. The living quarters are paid for with your own money, of course, subtracted from your paycheck, but purchased through SHIELD to retain anonymity. We'd be a pretty poor secret government agency if our agents could be found in the yellow pages, after all."

Natasha nodded slowly, savoring the wonderful sense of liberty stealing over her. Her own house! Or, more likely, her own apartment. Still, it was a place to herself, that she didn't need to share. Only…

"I have some security concerns with living off base, sir."

Fury waved away her doubts with a dismissive gesture. "Any and all necessary safety precautions are provided by SHIELD, from security systems to home surveillance equipment. Not one of our agents has ever experienced a break-in."

Natasha's mind was settled. Her own space – it was something she'd longed for since the day she left the Red Room. Still, she had to ask one last question.

"Are most of the agents currently on the Helicarrier residents, sir?"

She was asking about Barton just as much as she was asking about Fury and Hill and Coulson and Sitwell. Fury gave her an appraising glance before answering. "No. Most trainees here will be transferred to a base upon landing. The Helicarrier is, first and foremost, an aircraft carrier. All field agents are based out of land locations, except in cases of absolute emergency. Myself, Agents Hill, Coulson, and Barton, for example, all live in New York. Barton and Coulson live off base, Hill and I do not. Sitwell lives on base in Chicago."

Natasha nodded again, standing to go. "I'll need your decision in the next three days, Agent," Fury called as she left without being dismissed (because there was a streak of rebellion inside her they would never crush).

Natasha turned at the door, her face impassive except for her gleaming eyes. "No need. I've made up my mind. I want my own place."

**Reviews are always appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Ah, the next chapter! Much quicker than I thought I'd be updating, so don't get used to it. Thanks to all those who reviewed/followed/favorited the story so far - you guys are the best! I still don't own the Avengers, or Lana Del Rey, who's song "Radio" provides the lovely lyrics for the chapters. Enjoy!**

_I heard the streets were paved with gold_

_That's what my father said_

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Nick Fury turned towards the door, his hands rubbing over the top of his head as though sifting through ghostly strands of hair. Agent Barton stood in the doorway, his face almost impassive save for the curiosity evident in his eyes.

Gesturing to the chair in front of his desk, Fury blanked the computer screen he had been studying, waiting until Barton was seated to begin.

"Word around the Carrier is you've developed a bond with Agent Romanoff."

Barton shrugged, somehow making the gesture aggressive. "I like her company. And?"

"And no one else on this ship seems to have made any connection to her whatsoever – with the possible exception of Agent Nelson, who does so only on your behalf."

Barton's shoulders tensed. "She's an acquired taste, yeah, but so what?"

Nick smiled dryly, guessing the source of Hawkeye's discomfort. "Stand down, Barton. I'm merely verifying a rumor. I'm not interested in getting rid of your friend just because she's the playground bully – in fact, Agent Romanoff has achieved official employment status as of today."

Barton blinked, looking surprised and maybe a bit hurt – Romanoff must not have told him yet, then. Good.

"Now, we're set to land soon, and as a full-time agent, Romanoff has full advantage of SHIELD's housing benefits. I've given her her options today. However…" Nick paused, glancing at Barton from the corner of his good eye. Hawkeye was stiff, his posture betraying his alertness. Nick hid a smile. He wasn't sure how the two agents had developed such a strong bond, especially given their separate histories, but it would only work in SHIELD's favor.

"However, what?" Barton snapped. "Sir," he grudgingly added to allay the sharpness of his tone.

"However, I'm not about to let her loose in the streets until I am sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that she can be trusted. Not only has she been privy to sensitive information regarding the training and identity of our agents, she's also become familiar with the layout and defense systems of the Carrier. Now – "

"Oh, come on! She's had eight months to turn on us and she hasn't yet! Aside from the Red Room, that's the longest period of time she's ever stayed with one employer. Tasha's not about to go on a killing rampage in New York just because she can. She's not a monster."

Nick quelled any further speech with a raised eyebrow. It never failed to silence agents, though why, Nick wasn't sure. It was probably the eyepatch.

"I'm not suggesting that _Tasha_," and the name was trembling under his sarcasm, "is likely to massacre a small city. Only that, given our information on the Red Room and her personal testimony, she may be a bit unstable. Those Russian bastards have been experimenting on brain-altering narcotics and mind control since before the Berlin Wall came down. You and I both know that your girlfriend is more than a little messed up from her time with them."

Barton's hands clenched at the word but, since he wasn't a teenage boy afraid of feelings or cooties or both, he didn't bother to correct Nick. The mention of the Red Room had Hawkeye straightening his spine and widening his shoulders in an obviously defensive manner.

Fury was almost a little disappointed Barton allowed himself to be manipulated so easily. He was a _spy_, for Chrissakes, and even if he was more on the elimination than espionage end, he should recognize when someone was deliberately playing on his emotions. Like Nick was now.

"All I'm asking is she see the SHIELD psychologist before she leaves base, as she's already expressed the desire to live off SHIELD property. If we'd had a shrink on board, she could've already been assessed, but then, no one was expecting you to bring home strays."

Barton took a deep breath. "What, exactly, do you want me to do?" Hook, line, and sinker, thought Nick, keeping his expression one of unaffected neutrality with a hint of boredom.

"Just assure her cooperation. She trusts you more than me. It'll be two days at the most – just long enough to assure her time in the KGB didn't permanently screw her brain."

"She was never in the KGB," muttered Barton, a knee-jerk reaction from the many times others agents had brought it up. "But yeah, whatever, I'll tell her I fully endorse SHIELD's mental health screening. Can I go now? Hill is sparring with Natasha today and I wanna see _Tasha_ kick her ass."

Nick nodded his permission to Barton, who left without another word.

Turning his computer screen back on, Nick finished composing his interrupted email.

_Romanoff is set to arrive at 0500 on Monday. Full consent has been gained. Keep as long as necessary to rid agent of any and all triggers from Russia. Status reports expected daily. If agent is inflexible, termination remains an option._

_- N.F._

* * *

"No."

Clint paused on his way to the couch, stopping so abruptly that drops of the coffee he held in his hands splashed over the rim of the mugs and sizzled on his wrists. "Shit. What do you mean, no?" he spluttered.

Natasha, sitting on his couch in one of his old Iowa State hoodies (she'd continuously harped on about the lack of warm clothes in her SHIELD-issued wardrobe until Clint had given her the sweatshirt to shut her up. Of course, it was a moot gesture, as she'd already seen fit to steal it whenever she was cold), glanced up from the news program she was watching. "I mean, I'm not going to go." She spoke calmly, but there was an undercurrent of something dark in her voice.

"I don't really think it's optional, Tash." Clint passed her the red mug, because red was her favorite color and he was one of the few people that knew that about her. She took a sip and grimaced, though whether that was due to the coffee or the conversation, he wasn't sure.

"There wasn't anything in my contract about SHIELD attending to my mental health," she snipped, "and I'm not about to let some government-issued head-shrinker dig around in my skull so that Nick Fury can sleep better at night."

"It's just…protocol." It was a lame ass excuse, and Clint knew it. Natasha gave a delicate snort. "Well, c'mon. What's the worst that could happen?" It was the wrong thing to say.

Natasha's eyes turned dark, flinty orbs against her unusually pale face. "The last time I let someone besides myself into my mind, I lost 12 years of my life and killed over one thousand people. I set fire to a hospital full of sick children. I was married and widowed in a year, without any say in the matter. I lied, and I stole, and I surrendered the use of my body to scientists for no other reason than an inbuilt compulsion to loyalty. I assumed so many different identities, I sometimes forgot my own name. So yes, 'the worst that could happen' could actually be very, very bad."

Clint swore under his breath and sat next to Natasha. Her face and voice had remained carefully blank throughout her entire speech, but he could read a stiffness in her frame that showed how much her memories pained her. "It's not going to be like that Nat, I swear. It'll just be a lot of that psychobabble bullshit – what do you dream about and what do these ink blots look like and whatever."

"Ink blots?" she asked, the blood flow slowly creeping back to her face.

"You know, stereotypical shrink stuff. No drugs, no manipulation, just – just touching base. Making sure you're doing okay."

"But how are ink blots going to help with anything?"

Clint grinned. He may never be as smart as Natasha, but when it came to American culture, he was always her go-to expert. "I think I have _It's Kind of A Funny Story_ around here somewhere. Let's get you prepped for your first psych-eval."

**A/N: Just a fun fact - I almost used Ellie Goulding's "Human" for the lyrics in Time to Adjust, and I still think it relates pretty well to Natasha. You should probably all check it out, if you haven't heard it already.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Gasp! An update! I know, it's been forever. I think from now on, I'll be updating every weekend. Probably on Sunday, but possibly Saturday night as well. Song lyrics are still snagged from the talented Lana Del Rey and her song "Radio." Reviews are still a joy near and dear to my heart. Happy readings!**

_Their heavy words can't bring me down_

_Boy I've been raised from the dead_

"All I'm saying is, I don't understand why I don't get a car. You have a car. Coulson has a car. Fury cannot honestly think I'll be taking the bus everywhere."

"Tash," Clint said, glancing over the top of his sunglasses in the way he knew she hated, "you can't have a car because you don't have a license. That's kind of necessary for auto ownership. As is insurance, which you also don't have."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I'm a master spy. It's not like I've never driven before."

"I don't think hotwiring a tank counts."

Natasha rolled her eyes again, shading her eyes with her hand. SHIELD had apparently disregarded the importance of eyewear when compiling her wardrobe, along with all sense of style. In her black jeans, purple top, and black leather jacket, Natasha felt like a very frumpy bruise.

Clint hadn't seemed to think so, though, she recalled with a small smile. When she met him on the helipad of the then-docked Carrier, duffel bag in tow, he'd done a double take and nodded almost approvingly. "What's cookin', good lookin'?" he'd asked in typical Clint fashion. Then he'd led her off the ship and to the parking lot, where Betty-the-pickup-truck had been waiting for them.

"If you were any more of a stereotype, Barton, I'm not sure we could still be friends." Natasha rifled idly through his selection of '80s CDs.

Clint flashed her a feigned look of hurt, shoving her shoulder playfully with his right hand, the other still resting lightly on the steering wheel. "Says the alcoholic Russian communist."

"Only two of those terms apply. I'll let you guess which ones."

"I think we're here," Clint announced, turning sharply onto a rocky trail. In the distance, a plain white square came into view. "The Institute."

Natasha was gripped by a sudden sense of foreboding. Clint insisted on escorting her to the facility, but Fury had drawn the line at allowing Clint to stay there while Natasha was in therapy. They'd have to part ways here, and for the first time in – well, ever – Natasha didn't want to face her mission alone.

"Hey," said Clint softly, turning off the car and twisting to face her head on. "It'll be fine, Tash. Remember, we're the good guys here. It'll just be a few questions, sans straightjackets and medication, and then I'll be back to pick you up. You can stay at my place 'til you find somewhere to stay in the city."

"Right. I just wasn't expecting this big of a set-up. I figured it'd be like, one or two shrinks in one-story building."

"Well, you know SHIELD: go hard or go home. Or something like that." Clint's voice was almost too cheerful. He got out of the truck, snagging her bag from the floor by her feet before she could protest, and walked to her door. She hopped out before he could open it for her; too much chivalry and she'd have to punch him or something. "Besides, this is more than just a psych ward. It's a government building, got all kinds of medical professionals training here, as well as some field agents, _plus_ some boring pencil pushers and whatnot. It's a very happenin' place."

"Happenin'," repeated Natasha, looking at the stark façade. There were no people filing in or out the doors, no sounds to be heard besides the crunching of their shoes as they walked to the door. "Should be a fun week."

* * *

"Agent Romanoff has arrived, doctor."

"Good, good. Is she in her room?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the other one? Hawkeye?"

"He accompanied Agent Romanoff to her room and then departed."

"Excellent. Has Exam Room One been prepared as I specified?"

"Yes, sir." A slight pause. "If I may, sir, I really don't think all this is strictly necessary. Even the Director says he expects her to cooperate, and nothing in the report suggests any sociopathic tendencies or –"

"Thank you for your input, Eileen. You're dismissed."

"But, sir –"

"All her sessions will be recorded and sent to the Director. If he takes issue with my…methods, I'm positive he will tell me himself."

"Very well, sir."

"Oh, and, Eileen?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You need not tell any of your colleagues about Agent Romanoff. It's best if as few as possible people know about her…in case this ends badly."

"Understood, sir."

* * *

Clint paced the length of his apartment, fingers combing his hair, agitated. After so long on the Helicarrier, he was having trouble adjusting to the thriving night life of Bed-Stuy. Here, there was no curfew, no silent darkness broken only by the muted roar of engines. Here, the streets hummed with energy at all hours, filled with the snapping vitality that all New Yorkers seemed to have. As much as Clint loved the city, he thought he might be experiencing a bit of culture shock.

Surely that was the reason he couldn't sleep. It didn't have anything to do with Tasha – of course not. She was a big girl. She could handle herself. Hell, hadn't she proved that a million times already, including the swift jab to the kidney she'd delivered today when he'd tried to open the Institute's door for her?

Still…something didn't quite sit right with him. That lady that'd shown Nat to her room had been all kinds of twitchy, glancing around and wringing her hands. She'd even flinched when he dropped Natasha's bag on the floor of her room, as though the slight _thump_ had been a gunshot.

Natasha, for her part, had retained a pale but calm mask throughout the ordeal. After some of the stories she'd shared with him from her freelance days, Clint didn't think anything really scared her, but he could tell she was spooked today. It made sense, with her past and all, but that coupled with the sketchy tour guide and Fury's insistence he stay away from the Institute…well, something smelled kind of fishy to him. And it wasn't just the Brooklyn sewers.

"Paranoid," he reprimanded himself. Then, giving up, he dug his SHIELD issued laptop from the bag he'd taken from the Helicarrier.

Ten minutes later, he was up to his elbows in files about the Institute, half-frustrated and half-relieved that the place seemed completely on level. His cell started ringing, Springsteen's "Born in the USA" blaring from across the room. Clint got up and snatched it before it could roll over to voicemail.

"What _exactly_ are you digging for, and why are you using my passcode to do it?"

"Hey to you too, Phil. The ride out was fine, thanks. Yeah, I'm almost all settled in, just have a few things to unpack. Oh, Tasha? She's up at the Institute, we had no problem finding the place – "

"It is possible to take sarcasm to the point where it becomes annoying," Phil interjected dryly.

"You don't say. Why haven't you told me this before?"

"You're at that point, Barton. What are you looking for?"

"I just wanted to check out this Institute place a little more – I don't really know what it is. And for some reason, your passcode has access to _way_ more info than mine, despite my _very recent promotion_…"

"There are some things that field agents aren't supposed to see, regardless of clearance level. What are you hoping to find?"

"Something just seems off about that place, I don't know. Maybe that they occasionally experiment on captive aliens or that they're trying to clone sheep?"

"That's already been done, they're moved on to cloning horses now, much more advanced."

"I'm being serious."

"Never pegged you for the mother hen type, Clint."

Clint sighed, switching the speakerphone on and setting the phone on the desk. He pulled up the staff directory and started scrolling through names. "If I'm henning, I picked it up from you. I just don't like this, Phil. She hasn't done anything wrong. You've seen the file, you know what she's been through. Why is Fury insisting on treating her like a loose cannon?"

"Director Fury likes to be thorough. It's how he got to the top. Well, that and carefully plotted blackmail."

"Nothing's turning up anyway. I think I'll just call it a night."

"Good idea." Coulson sighed audibly, then added, "She'll be fine, Clint. There's no reason to be this worried."

"I know." Clint snapped his phone shut (Natasha has teased him mercilessly when she found out he still used a flip phone, accusing him of being either ridiculously out of touch or a hipster) and turned back to the computer screen.

Dr. Leanne Smythe was assigned to Natasha. Her credentials checked out, and she had a high success rate with her patients. "Overseen by Dr. Julius K. Greene…" murmured Clint, returning to the directory to search the name. A profile popped onto the screen. Clint scanned through it briefly, his eyes tired and his mind unfocused. A line in the profile caught his attention, and he reread the sentence carefully. His eyes widened.

A few seconds later, Clint had his phone back in hand, dialing Coulson's number.

**A/N: Ooh, the suspense! I know the chapters are a bit shorter than the ones in my previous stories, but the story as a whole will be longer, so...win some, lose some, I suppose**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Another week, another update. Hope you enjoyed the suspense in the last chapter - cliffhangers are fun, aren't they? Lyrics are from the same song, and I hope you've all listened to it at least once while reading this. Reviews make me happy!**

_American dreams came true somehow_

_I swore I'd chase until I was dead_

Natasha hadn't slept well. Or at all, really. Clint had taken her to a nearby drugstore before driving her here, promising to buy all her usual toiletries she'd been lacking on the Carrier. Unfortunately, this particular Walgreens didn't appear to have stocked up on Kruidvat ("What do you mean, imported? It's _shampoo_.") or Chanel No. 19 ("It costs _how_ much?"), so she was forced to settle on some crappy generic brands that would probably give her a rash. In short, it was the same situation she'd been in on the Helicarrier, only slightly improved by having personally selected the items.

Her quarters were little more than a hospital-styled room, an uncomfortable twin bed next to a cheap set of plastic shelves for her clothing. The walls were off-white, with a bathroom in the same color just large enough for a skinny shower and an old-fashioned sink and toilet combination. A small-screened television (with a poorly concealed camera "hidden" in the base) surveyed the room from its perch in the corner, complete with most basic cable channels except for the complete lack of news networks. Eileen, the mousy blonde tour guide, had hinted that some news programs upset patients with "sensitive dispositions."

"Not, of course, that I think you're delicate," Eileen stammered. "I mean, I don't think you're tough either. I mean, of course you're tough, you're just not like a heathen. I mean – well, yes, all the news stations are blocked."

Eileen had essentially given her run of the place – with banal limitations pertaining to operating rooms and private quarters in use – but Natasha felt little inclination to wander. Clint had produced a worn paperback copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ from his glove compartment, mumbling something about the title catching his eye years ago, and Natasha was eager to read it, eager – if she was honest with herself – to understand more of the enigma presented by Clint Barton. He seemed willing to learn her past, willing to share his present, but showed reluctance when confronted with his own history, and Natasha found herself morbidly interested in his story.

It shouldn't matter, it _didn't_ matter, who he was before, because she had been a different person back then too, up until a few weeks ago, and that person would never have been invited to sleep on Clint Barton's couch for weeks while searching for her own house. That person didn't exist anymore, and neither did the old Clint Barton, whoever he was. Natasha just wanted to understand why he was so kind, so patient, what had molded him into the man he was, willing to take a chance on a redhead with a death wish instead of blindly following his orders. A small, stupid part of her wondered if therapy would help her understand the people around her better, and it was only that hope that kept her from climbing the walls in the wee hours of morning when she should have been sleeping.

She was sitting on her stiff cot-bed, eight chapters deep in Scout's story (and when were they going to kill this damn bird, anyway?) when a soft knock came at the door. Eileen entered without permission (though Natasha knew that her room was under surveillance anyway, so she could hardly protest a lack of privacy), her blonde hair in a bun and looking much calmer than she had yesterday.

"Good morning, Ms. Romanoff. Are you ready for your appointment with Dr. Smythe?"

Natasha set her book down, already dressed in black yoga pants and a blue tank top, Clint's hoodie tied by the sleeves around her waist for courage. "I suppose," she said flatly, refusing to let her nerves show. "How bad can it be?"

* * *

"I want her out of there, and I want her out _now_."

"Calm down, Clint. You know Fury would never deliberately put her in any danger."

"_Deliberately put her in danger_? He's throwing her to the fucking sharks!"

"Agent Romanoff is in no danger."

"Agent Romanoff," Clint sneered, his knees bouncing up and down frantically while he sat on the couch. "I saw that you've been assigned as her handler, so don't go giving me this 'Agent Romanoff' shit. Her name is Natasha, and it's time you started calling her that."

"Natasha will be perfectly fine. Dr. Greene has been with the program for almost twenty years, and his colleagues say – "

"Screw his colleagues. Did you see what he was doing _before_ he became the jolly Greene doctor?"

"That was a poor pun, even for you."

"Well, I'm upset, dammit! This is so messed up Phil, you have to see that."

"Clint." Coulson sighed, the sound shivering down the phone lines, weighted down with stress and worry. "Don't do anything rash. I promise you, she'll be fine."

"Yeah. And you have her back, right, Phil? I don't know how you ever expect her to trust you in the field after this. When she finds out you knew…"

Couslson sighed again, and his voice softened, sympathy creeping into his impassive voice. "Look, you're upset, and I get that. I was upset at first too. But this isn't the first time Fury's dealt with a rogue Russian. He knows what he's doing. I trust him, so it all comes down to, do _you_ trust _me_?"

Clint paused before answering, carefully weighing years of friendship and loyalty against the irrational over-protectiveness that had sprung up the instant he'd read Greene's file. "Yes," he finally replied, albeit reluctantly. "I trust you."

"Good," said Phil, and he was back to being a handler, crisply businesslike. "Now get some rest, because I know you haven't slept since you dropped her off. I'll talk to Fury about letting you visit there. And by the way, Clint, as angry as Natasha would be if she found out what _I_ did, I'm more inclined to believe this caveman chivalry of yours would piss her off a whole lot more."

Clint gave a weak chuckle. "You're probably right. Goodnight, then, Phil. Oh, wait. Have you been looking into that – that other thing I asked about?"

"What, you think Natasha tapped into the phone line or something?"

"Just superstitious, I guess. Did you, though?"

"Sure did. You two are all set for next Friday. I'll meet you there around seven, so you can grab dinner first. Sound okay?"

"Sounds great," Clint breathed out, grabbing his overnight bag and walking to the door of his apartment. "Thanks again, Phil."

"Anytime."

Sure, Clint knew that Coulson on his worst day had better instincts than Clint on his best day, but when it came to Natasha –

Well, Clint wasn't taking any chances.

* * *

"And then he puts on this _terrible_ Sopranos accent – not that I knew what it was at the time – and he says 'I'm gonna make ya an offa ya can't refuse' and for some reason, he just seemed different, in a stupid sort of way and I – I don't know. But I didn't try to shoot him again."

Dr. Smythe smiled encouragingly. She was a younger woman, only a few years Natasha's senior, with soft brown hair cut in a bob around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were at once gentle and shrewd, missing nothing even as they encouraged honesty. Their session had been unlike anything Natasha had prepared for; instead of lying on a couch and explaining her dreams, she and the doctor had sat across from each other in arm chairs and talked about books, movies, music (not that Natasha knew a lot about any of those topics) before subtly bringing the conversation around to her past.

Natasha had decided, while pacing her room last night, that it would be more productive to talk, to tell the shrink what she wanted to hear, than to stay stoic the whole time. She stuck to safe topics – Clint, her life in Russia before the Red Room, Clint, her training at SHIELD, Clint, and her upcoming search for a new apartment. Topics that had no truly painful associations, topics she could discuss without sounding like a murderous maniac.

Dr. Smythe set her clipboard on the end table next to her chair, the table that contained a panic button Smythe probably thought Natasha didn't know about, and glanced at her watch. "Well, I think that about does it for the morning session, Natasha. Why don't you grab lunch and relax a bit before your afternoon appointment?" Her words, like her voice, were calm and even, but something suddenly seemed forced about her tranquility.

That thought nagged at Natasha all through her lunch – which was disgusting, hospital food, and she realized she'd been spoiled eating Clint's cooking all the time – and remained with her in her hour of free time, stealing her concentration away from Jem and Scout and the mystery of Boo Radley. She was almost relieved when Eileen came to fetch her again.

"This is different than the way we went this morning," Natasha pointed out as they walked. Eileen had squeaked and squabbled and wrung her little hands, before explaining that Dr. Smythe's mentor was scheduled to oversee her afternoon session. Natasha wasn't sure she wanted to talk to Smythe knowing that someone else was watching, but then, her whole sordid past was a matter of public record anyway, now that she worked for SHIELD.

Eileen dropped her off at a windowless room, _Exam Room One_ stamped on a plaque outside the double doors. Natasha pushed into the room, noting the soft click of an automatic lock behind her.

There were three armchairs in this room, two of which were already occupied. Natasha instantly recognized Dr. Smythe, but the other doctor's face swam in front of her eyes before connecting sharply with a memory.

"Yuliy," Natasha snarled, her body tensing in preparation for a fight. Something poked into her neck from behind, and turning, she saw Eileen skittering away, syringe in hand.

Her vision clouded, but she could see the man turn towards her with a bland smile. As strong hands caught her falling body, his voice echoed in her ears.

"_Hello, Natalia_."

**A/N: Don't you think cliffhangers are fun? And, just so you know, Yuliy may or may not be the Russian form of the name Julius...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I was going to post this sooner, because I felt bad about the back-to-back cliffhangers, but I never got a chance. Sorry! Also, as you know, I only follow the Avenger's movie canon and my own headcanon. That being said, I make some references to my own headcanon here, which are further explained in my fic "5 Times Natasha Romanoff Defected (and 1 Time She Stayed) if you want more info on the Yasmin story. I'm sure you know where the lyrics are from by now. I still love reviews!**

_Baby love me 'cause I'm playing on the radio_

_How do you like me now?_

Clint burst through the doors of the Institute, flashing his badges at the security detail that rushed to detain him. With long, controlled strides, he approached the young woman at the information desk.

"Where is Agent Romanoff?"

The girl blinked at him owlishly behind a curtain of sheer brown hair. Clint flipped her some ID and, apparently satisfied, the girl turned to her computer. "Ms. Romanoff is in a session with her doctor. If you'd like to wait for her – "

"Which doctor?" Clint cut in. His pulse was shuddering through his body, adrenaline zinging through his veins. He'd come looking for a fight, expecting to fight his way in and out and now –

Now it seemed he _may_ have overreacted a tiny bit.

The girl consulted her screen again. "Ms. Romanoff is with Doctor – are you family?"

Clint raised his eyebrows. "Tasha doesn't have any family." Shouldn't they know that already?

"I'm sorry, but I can't divulge that kind of information to non-family members. Are you – do you have right of attorney for Ms. Romanoff? Or maybe you're one of her emergency contacts?"

As far as Clint knew, Tasha hadn't given much thought to any of the legal aspects of her job. And Coulson had right of attorney, as all handlers did for their charges. He wracked his brain, desperately searching for the key to Tasha's location. "We live together," Clint offered quickly, reminding himself that, no, it wasn't a lie, because until Nat found an apartment she _would_ be sharing his.

More arrhythmic banging on the keyboard, then: "Well, I suppose that's okay then. Your ID checks out so – she's with Dr. Smythe. But obviously, you can't attend her session. So if you want to wait here I'll have someone inform her – "

But Clint was already gone, having memorized the route from the building's entrance to Natasha's room. He didn't like waiting, but at least he knew he had a better chance of seeing her if he waited in her quarters. The last thing he needed was for the receptionist to do some more digging on Nat's housing situation.

Besides, she was probably fine. If she was with Dr. Smythe, then she wasn't with Dr. Greene. And if she wasn't with Dr. Greene, she'd be okay.

* * *

Natalia awoke to darkness and pain. There was a bullet wound in her side, and blood gurgled sluggishly from a cut on her arm. There was more blood too, on her hands and in her hair. But this wasn't her blood, she knew it instinctively. The metallic scent filled her head completely, a nauseating perfume made worse by the stench of unclean water: she was standing on the bank of a flat yellow river.

There was something in the river – a dark, distorted blob undulating in the current. Tendrils of red swirled away from the shape, dissipating in the water.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Death. So peaceful, so graceful, watching life leak from a body. Wouldn't you agree, Natalia?"

Natalia turned, her eyesight blurry and her movements sluggish. A petite girl, with wide green eyes and pale skin, stood next to her. She smiled, and it was Natalia's smile on a stranger's lips. No. Not a stranger…

"Yasmin?" Natalia croaked, and the words echoed like the buzzing of insects, shimmering on the air before twisting into nothing. Yasmin's face flickered, fading in and out of existence for a moment before returning to normal.

"I'm flattered you remember me, сестра. They say as long as your name is still spoken, you are never truly dead. And here I am. So it must be true."

Natalia's eyes drifted to the river where the shape bobbed unconcernedly. Her vision tunneled and the shape rushed forward, suddenly coming into gruesome focus. It was a body, the body of a young woman with raven hair and icy skin, made paler by the absence of life flowing within her veins. One arm was twisted at an impossible angle, the bones popped out of place to display the message carved into the flesh. Я сам себе хозяин теперь_. I am my own master now._

Then the corpse receded into obscurity once more. Natalia turned back to Yasmin, whose smile turned predatory and cruel. "Do you remember it, Natalia? Do you remember our fight? How I tried to bring you back to us – back to your family? Do you remember shooting my temple with my own gun? Carving your little note? Dumping me into the river? It was clever, keeping the arm out of the water. By the time they found me, most of the skin had decayed to nothing…" Her face flickered again, this time revealing her face as it must have been then: grayish flaps of greasy flesh dripping off a bleached skull that was shattered in a sunburst around the left temple. Natalia felt her stomach heave, but she managed not to scream. Yasmin spoke again, and Natalia could see the jaw hinge and unhinge as she formed the words.

"You thought you could escape from us? From your past? You think you can hide behind the flag of a foreign country, play the good patriot, and they will accept you? Russia is your blood, the Red Room is your body and we – your sisters – are your mind. Мы Вас. Вы нас. Мы являемся одним."

Yasmin lifted a shriveled arm, and Natalia could still faintly see the words etched into the skin. In her hand was Natalia's knife, a beautiful steel blade with a hand-carved handle she had bought for herself in Mumbai. "Let's see how long it takes _your_ corpse to deliver a message, shall we?"

* * *

Dr. Smythe stared at the screen displaying Natasha's vitals. The heart rate had shot up a minute ago, running at a frenzied pace before slowing slightly again. As Leanne watched, the line began to zigzag frantically once more, and Natasha twisted violently in her sleep.

"How is her brain reacting to the stimuli, Julius?" Leanne asked, turning to look at the other doctor occupying the observation room. The old man pushed his glasses up his nose and turned to his mentee, eyes slightly crossed from hours of concentrating on a screen.

"I am not sure. She was repulsed by the body. She felt no violence towards her old handler until a moment ago – the attack portion of this sequence. So that is only self-defense. And yet, I can detect no remorse in her. She is disgusted, she is afraid – but she is not sorry."

"Well, we'll continue to observe her. We still have several more sequences to induce. And we haven't tested her for triggers yet."

Leanne turned back to the window, watching Natasha's body jerk and twitch, reacting to imagined injuries. It seemed cruel, this "mental detox" that Greene had insisted upon. But Leanne trusted Julius, trusted that he knew the methods of his old employers well. Trusted that he could undo the damage he'd done to this same girl's brain years and years ago.

**A/N: Russian translations are from Google Translate and are as follows:**

**сестра: sister**

**Я сам себе хозяин теперь: I am my own master now**

**Мы Вас. Вы нас. Мы являемся одним: We are you. You are us. We are one.**

**Also: At normal hospitals I'm sure they have different rules for giving out information about patients, but since this is a SHIELD hospital, and Clint has the highest level of clearance at SHIELD (for a field agent), the receptionist is allowed to give him that information.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: I know, I missed my udpdate last week. I'm so, so sorry! I know I hate waiting for new chapters, and two weeks is a loooong time. Real life just has no appreciation for fanfic. Anyway, thanks a bunch for all the reviews I've gotten so far - you all rock! Lyrics are still from the amazingly talented Lana Del Rey, and I own less than nothing of the Avengers. Enjoy and remember to review!**

_Pick me up and take me like a vitamin_

_'Cause my body's sweet like sugar venom, oh yeah_

Clint's phone blared to life next to his ear, Bruce Springsteen belting out his love for the U. S. A. in tinny baritone. Clint jerked upright, the movement causing him to lose balance on his precarious perch, and he tumbled to the floor. Looking around the unfamiliar room, his brain worked slowly to deduce where he was. Blank white walls…white-sheeted twin bed…a desk with legs that were bolted to the ground…

Natasha's room at the Institute. He picked up his phone, his groggy brain processing the fact that he'd been here long enough to fall asleep, and Natasha still hadn't come back.

"Barton, just what the hell do you think you're doing there?"

"Phil, I swear you must be psychic sometimes."

"Or the receptionist alerted me when you signed in. She wanted to have you thrown out, you know. So you're welcome."

"Why are you getting so upset about it now? That was – " Clint glanced at the digital clock on the desk he'd been using as a bed. Neatly displayed in red was the time: 3:23. "That was like _eight hours ago_. Holy shit. What exactly is going down in these 'therapy sessions'?"

"Nothing you need to know about. I know you're worried, 'cause for some reason you two have managed to bond over your general dislike of people and overall screwed-up-ness, but you have to let us do this, Clint. Natasha needs time to get her head on straight, and unfortunately we haven't had the resources to help her for the last few months. You can't just barge in here like the she's some damsel in distress and – "

"I know who her doctor is." Clint interrupted, fists clenching. "Yuliy Grebenshchikov. He was a Red Room doctor – he screwed her up in the first place – and you don't even care. Can you just imagine how _betrayed_ she probably feels? We just handed her to the people she's spent the last five years running away from!"

"Dr. Greene is an employee of SHIELD. He has our full confidence. It's really quite unfair for you not to give him the same level of trust that you're giving Natasha."

"Natasha didn't have a choice in what she became. He did. And I want to see her. I need to make sure she's all right. So, please, Phil, I'm begging – on the floor and everything, I'll take a picture if you don't believe me – _please_ let me see her today."

There was a pause – so long a pause that Clint checked his piece-of-crap Motorola to make sure it hadn't dropped _another_ call – before Coulson answered.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Phil knew how to read people.

Some spies were the sneaky ones, agents who slid in and out of reality, gathering info and disappearing without a trace. Others were the charge in, guns blazing type, the kind that spent half their lives in the gym, who had scars written across their skin like testimonies to their strength. Phil was a little of both – but his largest skill lay in his ability to crack a person open and anticipate his thoughts and actions a split second before they occurred. It was a skill that'd saved his life a million times over.

But for the life of him, Phil could not understand the enigma of _ClintandNatasha_.

In his head, they were a single entity. They'd been almost inseparable since Natasha had joined, sparring and eating and spending all their downtime together. Clint, for all his smart-ass jokes and generally likable personality, kept to himself as a rule. He had a few friends – and since those "friends" were usually exes, he wasn't sure that was even the right term – and of course, Phil always had his back. But the kid had had a hard life, a crappy childhood marred by abuse followed by an overly violent life as an adult. He was broody and moody and altogether a reticent person. Phil had spent years – _years_ – trying to get Clint to open up, and even though Clint had told him mostly everything during their time together, Phil still didn't have the same deep bond that Clint'd found with Natasha.

Phil and Clint were like father and son, but Natasha and Clint were like the same person.

And Phil had been shocked that Natasha had allowed herself to form any kind of relationship with anyone. If Clint had a tough childhood, then Natasha's childhood had been veritable disaster. Phil knew almost nothing about her, but he knew that she had no personal ties to anything or anyone in the world. Except, of course, for Clint.

Somehow, these two had found an existence they liked better than their separate solitudes, an existence that defied all reason. To be sure, it was going to be a bumpy ride: barring himself and the Director, Phil had never met two stronger personalities.

But no matter the reason, and no matter the future, Phil saw how strongly Clint clung to this friendship (Natasha too, though of course, neither would admit to being anything close to codependent). And so Phil Coulson, for once unable to fully trust his own instincts, decided to trust Clint's instead.

_"I'll see what I can do."_

* * *

Natasha was released to Clint's custody (although he hated that word, hated how it still made her sound so untrustworthy) 2 days later. To be sure, it was a lot sooner than she'd been supposed to leave, but Clint hadn't been able to see her at all while she was there, and by the time she'd been escorted back to her room by that twitchy blond and given permission to check out, Clint had been climbing the walls.

Literally. He'd found a sizable vent near the floor with a long, narrow shaft that led into the ceiling. He'd tried to find his way around via the air ducts (something he'd done countless times) but most of the channels were too narrow to navigate, so he spent most of his time up there fretting.

Natasha was silent on the ride from the Institute back to his apartment. She looked just a bit too pale, a bit too blank, and he wondered for the hundredth time what all her "therapy" had entailed. He hadn't asked, but he doubted she would tell him anyway; she hadn't said a word to him yet. And it seemed like the silent treatment was going to last for awhile.

"Well, this is it." Clint's voice was about four decibels too loud in the stillness of the apartment, but he was desperate to break the silence. He tossed Natasha's bag down on the pullout couch – she hadn't even protested when he carried it out of the car for her, which really worried him – and proceeded to give her a one-sided tour of the place. "This is the living room. And that's the bathroom. And over there is the kitchen. My room's back that way. And this is the fire escape."

Natasha walked around, eyes scanning every inch of his modest apartment, and he suddenly felt an odd wave of possessiveness overtake him. Something had happened in the Institute, something way beyond the typical lay-on-the-couch-and-talk-about-your-dreams routine. He wanted to help – he just didn't know how.

"Thank you," Natasha said, quietly, but the unexpectedness of her voice made Clint flinch in surprise. "For opening your home to me. And letting me sleep on your couch for now."

Clint smiled. "It's no big deal." (And he definitely wouldn't admit that he'd had his ancient moth-bitten couch replaced by an actual pullout couch just the day before the Helicarrier landed.) "What are friends for, if not for being a convenient pit stop?"

Natasha frowned, a small burrow forming between her eyes. "I don't think of you as a pit stop."

Her eyes were more than a little intense, the expression at once hurt and empty. Clint cleared his throat and changed the subject.

* * *

_"I thought you loved me."_

_"I did – I do! I love you more than my own life, I – "_

_"You killed me."_

_"No! I didn't mean to, it wasn't me, it wasn't my fault!"_

_"You're a plague on everyone you meet, Natalia."_

_"Alexei, _please_, I didn't know this would happen, I didn't want you to die!"_

_"But I did die, and you just walked away. Unscathed. Uncaring. Forgetting all the promises you ever made – "_

_"I didn't know they were waiting – "_

_"You wanted to leave and you didn't even think of the risk. You didn't think of anyone but yourself – "_

_"_Please_ – "_

_"You useless whore, always ungrateful for what you have, always unable to be loyal, always forgetting your duty."_

_"But – but, I loved you. I thought you loved me – "_

_"Love is for children."_

Natasha's eyes snapped open, her body tensed to the point of pain. Slowly, the dream lost its grip, its talons withdrawing from her anguished mind. She sat and buried her face in her hands.

She thought she was done with the nightmares.

They had released her early, saying they didn't think she was a danger or a liability, but that her full test results would be sent to SHIELD in a few days. Grebenshchikov hadn't said anything, and she hadn't been allowed to talk to him either. They were probably worried – and rightly so – that she would kill him. And she would have.

But then, her whole life had been murder after murder. As much as she hated to admit it, the last few days of hell had at least shown her that. Alexei, Yelena…they were her friends, her family. She had never felt so much guilt over their deaths before. Alexei's she always blamed on the Red Room, but it was clear to her now that she'd been avoiding the truth. It was her fault.

"You're a plague on everyone you meet…"

She stood up, feeling disconnected from her body. She walked towards Clint's room, pausing at the doorframe. He'd left it cracked open, in case she needed anything. She pushed the door open more, slipping quietly inside.

Clint didn't stir. He slept flat on his back, one arm thrown over his face, his chest rising and falling steadily.

He didn't seem to hear her as she walked closer. There was a knife on his bedside table – sloppy, really, leaving it in plain sight – and she set her fingertips on the handle.

She could do it. Slit his throat, now, while he was sleeping. He'd never know what hit him. And a year ago, she would have.

But now, her hand was shaking, and she felt sick and weak and dizzy. She stumbled back out of his room, forgetting to be quiet, absently surprised when he still didn't wake.

She couldn't do it. She wouldn't. It felt wrong, every nerve ending in her body repulsed by the thought. She was trembling all over.

She didn't – she couldn't – she wasn't really a monster then, was she? If she couldn't kill him in cold blood – there was something worth redeeming in her –

A plague. She couldn't kill him, but she knew in her heart that staying here would get him killed. Maybe not anytime soon, but it was inevitable. She was a harbinger of doom. He was so trusting - and she didn't deserve it.

* * *

When Clint woke in the morning, Natasha and her bag were gone, replaced by a sheet of blank paper with one line written in a small, neat hand.

_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._

**A/N: If you're the religious type, you might recognize the phrase; if not, it's Latin, if you'd like to look it up.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: I know I missed an update, and I'm sorry! But my Internet was being awful and tempermental all last week. It's fixed now, so not to worry! This is the second to last chapter in this story, and I'll be posting a few short stories/one-shots before I post the next story in this series. Lyrics are still from the same beautiful song Radio by Lana Del Rey, and as always, I adore each and every review.**

_Now my life is sweet like cinnamon_

_Like a fucking dream I'm living in_

It had been two whole weeks, and for some reason Natasha's allowed herself to be complacent, but maybe she really should have known better because she's been in this shithole bar for exactly 3 seconds before he approaches her.

To any outside observer, it would appear that they don't know each other, that they're just two strangers drowning their mutual sorrows in cheap liquor, that perhaps the man is trying to get lucky before heading home to his menopausal wife and drug-addict kids, but Natasha knows better. Her relationship with the man was short-lived, to be sure, but she'd been trained to remember details, and so she recognizes the set of his shoulders and the way he purses his lips even if his eyes are covered by the Yankees cap pulled low over his brow.

(And the Yankees cap is a giveaway all on its own, because how many Yankees fans are there really in the ass-end of Texas where she's been hiding, deciding whether or not to just jump the border into Mexico like some common drug lord?)

He doesn't say anything to her at first, just orders a beer she doubts he'll drink, and she briefly considers leaving, but she know he'd just follow, so she waits. Finally, he turns to her and speaks.

"You really threw Barton to the sharks with this disappearing act."

She sighs, because she knows Coulson is right even if she doesn't want him to be. "It was for the best. He'd be in a much worse situation if I'd stayed."

Coulson raises his eyebrow and she feels a flash of guilt, though she's not really sure why, because she's convinced she acted for the best. Isn't she?

"You mean, worse than facing possible charges of treason, which will at best let him live his life in prison or at worst get him a one way ticket to death row?"

She winces, because maybe she hadn't thought that far ahead, but now she's realizing that bailing right after gaining access to sensitive information probably didn't look good.

"I was trying to protect him."

"Wait, wait, let me guess – it's not him, it's you? You still want to be friends? Or is there someone else?"

Natasha glares and knocks back the rest of her drink (ostensibly a vodka tonic, but it's of a caliber unbeknownst to her before tonight, which she hopes will never be known to her again) before turning to face Coulson. She's not pleased with him relegating her decision to the same level of importance merited by melodramatic high school breakups – after all, love is for children, and this is so far beyond childish that she's instantly defensive.

"Everyone I've come into contact with, my whole life, anyone that I've ever let in, has died. It's like a curse – it's like _I'm_ cursed. Your doctor friend made that perfectly clear to me," she couldn't resist adding, if only to try to piss him off. "So yeah, I left, before Clint could end up dead or worse, because I have enough red in my ledger without adding his name to the list."

Coulson leans forward and tips up his ballcap, all business suddenly, and Natasha feels that disconcerting flash of guilt again. "So you just abandoned him? He's spent all this time and energy trying to help you, let his own defenses down so you could trust him enough to do the same, and you bailed because it suddenly occurred to you that you're a bad person?"

The words hurt, even though they shouldn't, even though she's been called far worse before. She realizes that Clint has given her hope, that she's started to believe that she could be better, and having that belief refuted cuts her deep.

"I've got a newsflash for you, Romanoff. Clint Barton is one of the best damn people I've ever had the privilege of knowing, and he's also had the worst luck of everyone I've ever met. He doesn't deserve to have his trust and his heart broken, but it's happened to him more times than I've cared to count. I had my misgivings about him taking you on as his partner – and yes, he was planning on requesting a partnership from the beginning – but for some reason he trusted you, and I trusted him. Because say what you will about that kid, but he is an impeccable judge of character. If he says there's good in you, then there's good, whether you'll admit to it or not."

He paused then, surprising Natasha by taking a sip of his drink before almost comically spitting it back into the bottle. Natasha couldn't find it in her to laugh, so awash in shame as she was.

"So yeah, maybe reliving your past wasn't the best morale booster you've had in awhile, but that's just who you _were_. Clint believed in who you _could be_. And not only did you fail him, you failed yourself by leaving."

He stands then, and Natasha realizes with a thrill of horror that he's going to leave – that he's putting the choice to be better on her, a choice that she's always handled poorly in the past.

"Coulson," she says, grabbing his sleeve and looking at him dead in the eye, for once not trying to hide her emotions that must be plain on her face. He hesitates before sitting down again.

"I didn't do this to hurt Clint – I swear I thought I was helping – I just don't know how to handle all this. I've been ignoring what I've done, all the killing and blood and bruises, for my whole life. I guess I just started to think that Clint was wrong, that I really couldn't be better than what I was."

Coulson considers her for a moment, reaching again for his beer before thinking better of it. "Your test results came yesterday," he offers, non sequitur, and pulls an unmarked manila envelope from his hoodie pocket. "Believe it or not, you passed."

She takes the envelope and pages, close to frantic, through the contents. There's a lot of psychobabble, as Clint would call it, and she doesn't really understand what's being said about her, but there's no "PSYCHOTIC" written in all caps anywhere, and she figures that Coulson might even be telling the truth.

"Dealing with your past is the first step to recovery. You felt guilt, you felt remorse, for the things you've done. Hell, just running away proved that you want to compensate for your choices. So, feel free to wallow in guilt during your therapy sessions – which won't be with Dr. Greene, by the way – and get your ass back to New York."

* * *

They've been driving in Coulson's fancy red car – Lola, he called her, but naming inanimate objects is so disgustingly _American_ that Natasha refuses to acknowledge the name – for about an hour before she asks.

"Why Grebenshchikov – Greene, whoever – in the first place? Why couldn't I just talk it out to Smythe? Why the lies and the drugs?"

"Firstly, because no SHIELD psychiatrist has any clue how to deal with something like this – we can only imagine the scope of the horrors you've lived through. And secondly, because you weren't going to talk about it anyway. You've spent your whole life trying to block those memories, and the Red Room still had some effect on your mind. You needed something capable of breaking through those walls."

Natasha is willing to admit this is true, but she still can't forgive Grebenshchikov's involvement. So she asks what a known child rapist and inhumane scientist is doing anyway, working for SHIELD.

"It's actually because of you," Coulson says with a grim smile, and Natasha would almost think he was taking some sick pleasure in the situation, except the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"After you left, the Red Room realized its drugs could be circumvented. They couldn't risk more girls leaving – it was too much of a liability. So they started on more intense drug treatments, complete mind-altering experimentation, trying to overcome what Greene said was called the 'humanity factor.' They also lowered the age of their recruits from young children to infants."

He paused there a moment without looking at Natasha, and she gratefully took the minute to compose her face, trying to ignore the repulsive images in her mind.

"Dr. Greene helped develop the drugs and even had a hand in selecting their candidates. But then the unthinkable happened."

Again there was a pause, and Natasha had a suspicion this one was more suspenseful than anything; the man had clearly picked up on Clint's dramatic (or as he would say, epic) story-telling habits.

"They took his own daughter. His wife died in labor, supposedly, but Greene told us that he suspected foul play in her death. His daughter couldn't survive the rigor of the drug treatments – most of the babies couldn't. So she died, and Greene left Russia, determined to do something to take the Red Room down. SHIELD found him a few months later and recruited him, and he's been with us ever since."

"It's not like it's that common," drawled Natasha sarcastically. "Reprogramming brainwashed Widows. Has he even tried this before me?"

Coulson looked at her, his eyes sad, and suddenly Natasha wished he wouldn't answer. But he did.

"Her name was Nina. She was one of the girls who had already been recruited when you left. She was subjected to the new treatment and it seemed to have worked. She was captured on an assignment in Lima, and Dr. Greene requested to be her therapist. He tried, but…the new drugs had permanently changed the makeup of her brain. She couldn't be fixed."

"What happened to her?" Natasha asked, inwardly recoiling at the masochism inherent in the question. She didn't really want to know.

"She went insane, unfortunately. She still lives in a SHIELD asylum somewhere out east. Nina Ikanova. You didn't know her, did you? She would've been, uh, recruited around the same time you were."

An image flashed through her mind – a girl with too big blue eyes, silvery blonde hair, and icy skin. The girl in her mind was smiling, too charismatic to be influenced by any drugs. _Natalia_ would have reported the obvious lack of control in the girl, but _Natasha_ had been struck by her vibrancy, her earnestness, her youth. She had only been twelve, and she had still refused to leave when Natasha had offered to bring her along. "I have to stay, I must protect my family and my younger sisters," the girl had replied solemnly.

Natasha swallowed the lump in her throat, too well-trained to let the emotions show. "No," she murmured softly, "I didn't know her."

The Texas night flashed by in silence.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: And here ends our story. I want to thank everyone who reviewed the story - you guys are the best. Also, this story had over 4,000 views! That's crazy! I'm so grateful to all my wonderful readers. As I mentioned earlier, the next story in this series will start posting in a few weeks, after I put up some of the one-shots I've been working on. You know where the song is from, so enjoy!**

_No one even knows what life was like_

_Now I'm in LA and it's paradise_

_I've finally found you_

Coulson had, justifiably, been a bit wary of her plan, but after repeatedly citing the newly acquired proof of her sanity, he finally gave in.

"You have ten minutes," he informed her as he slid to a stop in front of the brightly lit doors of the Institute; it was almost 4 a.m. in New York, but the building was still buzzing with the ever-present turmoil of hospital life.

Natasha wasn't even sure Greene would be awake, but the helpful receptionist – helpful once Natasha had used Coulson's high-level passcode – informed her that the good doctor was in the second floor cafeteria.

She found him hunched over a cup of coffee, yesterday's paper spread wide in front of him. He barely acknowledged her as she dropped into the seat across the table.

"You have those charts for me, yes, Eileen?" he mumbled tiredly, eyes still scanning the paper. The Business section, she noted idly.

"Can't say that I do, Yuliy."

His reaction was almost comical, or would have been, if she hadn't spent eight months receiving much of the same from the other SHIELD agents. His coffee tumbled over, dark black liquid oozing through the paper and blurring the words.

"Natalia – " he began, his face paling rapidly.

"It's Natasha now. Or rather, to you, it's Agent Romanoff. Formalities aside, calm yourself, doctor. I'm not going to hurt you. Too many witnesses," she added, a joke that, in retrospect, was probably of poor taste.

"Why you have come back here?" he asked, and she was surprised to hear his accent still heavy on his tongue, awkwardly fumbling over the words. She supposed he had never had much use for language, in performing _his_ duties for the Red Room.

"I came back to talk to you, and I'd appreciate if you'd take a moment to just listen." He didn't say a word, his face still devoid of blood, and it looked like maybe he was holding his breath. It occurred to her suddenly how intimidated by her he was – how much nerve it must have taken for him to help with her therapy.

"I just came to say thanks. Not for your methods, because they were kind of bullshit and we both know it, and definitely not for lying and drugging me and experimenting on me without my consent. You've done plenty of that in the past, and I don't forgive you for it; I probably never will. But then, I can never forgive myself for what I did back then, either. It's the choices that we make now that matter, and you chose to help me. Thank you. I didn't come looking for an apology, because nothing can ever make up for what you were – what we both were. You, working here for SHIELD, you've made your life into an apology, into an atonement for your sins, and that's what I want to do. I want to live as though someday, my past could be forgiven. So thank you for showing me that path, as well."

Greene swallowed, looking suspicious, as though trying to find her angle.

"You decided I wasn't psychotic," she reminded him.

He laughed weakly at that, wiping a hand across his clammy forehead. "I will say sorry anyway, because you deserve apology. I never knew until my Irina died – "

Natasha really hadn't wanted this to turn into some weird hair-braiding, heart-to-heart bonding moment, so she cut him off abruptly. "No worries, Yuliy. We're good here."

She turned to leave, knowing her time was running out and that Coulson was probably driving in aimless circles in the car equivalent of pacing, not really wanting to keep him waiting. A thought struck her before she could walk away.

"Actually, if I could just ask you one question…"

* * *

She had to go back to base that night, essentially to prostrate herself to Fury and ask for forgiveness, which came surprisingly easy. She suspected Coulson had something to do with that. She would have left immediately after being reinstated for Clint's crappy apartment, but Coulson vaguely mentioned something about the rudeness of_ banging someone's door down at this hour_, so she reluctantly hunkered down in a spare bunk for the night.

Upon waking the next morning, she took the subway to Bed-Stuy – actually, a ferry and two taxis and the subway, but who was counting? – and found herself hesitating outside his building, a bag of doughnuts in hand. It was entirely plausible that he wouldn't want anything to do with her. But she was Natasha Romanoff, dammit, and she didn't scare easily, especially when it came to Clint Barton, so she swallowed her fear and braced herself and marched straight to his door. It swung open on the first knock.

Clint stared at her for second, not looking any worse for wear save for the slightly too-black circles under his eyes. He stared at her impassively while she awkwardly and pathetically explained her abrupt departure – she'd already had plenty of practice with Fury anyway – and when she was done, he spent a good couple of minutes just staring at her.

"So uh, even though I kind of threw the hospitality back in your face last time, can I...you know, maybe stay here again, for awhile?"

"No," Clint said simply, and it wasn't until that moment that Natasha realized how she had been depending on him to forgive her. His refusal was like a punch to the face, a kick in the gut, like a hundred other inane clichés, and _fuck_, she'd just lost her only in friend in, well, ever.

Head down, she turned to go, but then Clint, that good, merciful, jackass Clint grinned widely and said, "Because I already moved the things you've left behind to your new place."

"You found me a house?" Natasha blinked, weirdly touched, although she still wasn't sure if maybe he just wanted to get rid of her.

"Apartment, actually. I had my eye on it for a while, had an appointment with the realtor last week and everything. I had planned on bringing you, but since you were MIA and the place just sold itself, I took the liberty of buying it using your allotted housing fund. Come on, you're gonna love it."

The apartment turned out to be in Astoria, in Queens, not too far from Clint's place, but far enough that she felt she had her own space. The apartment itself was nice enough, all clean, modern lines and metal and glass, but it was the little touches that made it actually seem like home. There was a little Greek restaurant just down the street that served homemade baklava on the weekends. A block away, a little old Hungarian lady ran a bookstore, with novels in native Russian and Ukrainian and Polish. Clint sheepishly admitting, ducking his head as he did so, that he wanted her to have a little piece of her Eastern Europe with her here in the States. But the most impressive part had to be…

"Barton – are these _my_ clothes?" The closet was fully stocked already – not with Clint's best guess of what she would like, not with SHIELD's standard sweatpants and t-shirts, but with _her_ clothing from her freelance days.

"Yeah. Well, SHIELD had me collect all the things you left behind when I was tracking you. Said they needed it for evidence or something. Once you joined up, I figured they didn't need the evidence anymore, and I had a feeling they hadn't gotten rid of everything so..."

Among the scraps of silk and lace she had worn for the more _unsavory_ parts of her job, she found her favorite worn-out jeans, her oversized touristy t-shirt she'd bought as a joke in Kazakhstan, her best pair of Manolo Blahniks.

"I managed to find some of your ridiculous German shampoo, I think. I couldn't actually read the label. It's in the bathroom, if you want to check it out."

But Natasha's attention was focused on something else entirely. Hanging in the back of the closet was a faded red hoodie with the word IOWA proudly proclaimed in gold across the chest – Clint's old college hoodie, the one she had constantly stolen on the Helicarrier. For a moment, her throat was too swollen to speak (from surprise, mind you, because the Black Widow certainly doesn't get emotional about silly things like _outerwear_, thank you very much).

"So what do you think?"

Natasha swiped at the oddly damp skin under her eyes before turning around.

"You've done all right, Barton."

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" asked Clint, his voice almost neutral but for the slight hint of concern buried underneath. She'd been back for almost a month, but still he was treating her like a spooked horse, as though she could bolt at any minute.

And she _could_, but she wouldn't. She needed to do this.

She consulted the slip of paper in her – written in the brusque script of one Dr. Julius Greene – and compared the address to the building in front of her. "This is the place."

The place was pretty enough, surrounded as it was by the New Hampshire fields with rolling hills and all that jazz, but building itself was small and dark and a little foreboding. The nurse that met them at the front was frazzled, old but still vibrant in her eyes, and fiercely protective of her wards. Natasha liked her right away.

"It's so good of you to come visit poor little Nina! She is the sweetest girl we've ever had, so young when she got here, poor thing, and never has a bad word to say about anyone. Not that she talks at all, most days. But she hasn't had a visitor since that nice old doctor fellow when to work in New York, and I bet she's just terribly lonely. Not that I can tell sometimes, with her. How did you say you knew her, dear?"

Natasha bit her lip before replying, accepting the comforting squeeze to the arm Barton offered. "We went to school together. When we were younger."

"This is her room," said the nurse, thankfully not asking anymore questions. "I'll just wait out here with your boyfriend while you visit, and while I hate to rush you, dinner is in just a few minutes, so you won't have long." Natasha had planned it that way, giving herself a built-in escape plan. Without correcting her in regards to Clint – because what did it matter, anyway? – Natasha pushed into the room.

Nina looked wholly unchanged from the last time Natasha had seen her. Her corn-silk hair was longer, grown out past her waist, and her skin was sallower than the pure snowy color it had been before, but otherwise she was the same twelve-year-old girl from Natasha's memory. She was staring out the window, hands twisting helplessly in her hair, ignoring the sound of the door opening.

"Nina?" called Natasha softly, not wanting to startle her.

The girl turned around, her blue eyes wide and surprisingly lucid. "Natalia? О, Боже, ты тоже! Я не хочу, чтобы он вас тоже!"

"Slow down," said Natasha, slightly alarmed at the panic in her voice, her eyes darting to the door and the attentive nurse that waited just beyond it. "What are you talking about?"

Nina rushed forward and grabbed her hand. "You have to leave now. The longer you stay, the less chance you have of getting out. I didn't know what to do in the beginning, so I stayed, and now no one will believe me when I say I'm not crazy. Some days I don't even believe it myself."

"What do you mean, Nina?"

Nina's grip tightened sporadically as she spoke. "He told them I was crazy, but I wasn't, and he told me if I didn't stay here I wouldn't be safe, and he said if I tried to leave he'd tell SHIELD I was still a threat and I've been losing my mind here anyway, Natashenka, just like he wanted. And now he's gotten to you, too!"

"Nina, I'm just here to visit you." Natasha's head was spinning. Dr. Greene had put her here, knowing she wasn't crazy, and threatened her if she tried to leave? Why? And why tell Natasha how to find Nina, knowing there was a possibility Nina would tell her everything? Nothing made sense.

"Promise me, дорогой. Promise me you won't trust a thing that man says. Don't let him do this to you too. You were always the strongest – you always had the best chance of escaping. You _have_ to get away from him!"

"Dinner time!" sang the nurse gaily, pushing into the room. Nina fell silent instantly, hand dropping from Natasha's arm, fingers again twisting into her matted blonde hair. Clint slid into the room as the nurse led Nina away, calling over her shoulder, "Feel free to come back real soon, sugar!"

"Hey," he said, reading her face in that uncanny way of his, "you okay?"

And maybe it was a dumb question, and maybe she was learning that it would never really be okay – not for her, not with her past always finding its way back to her. But right now, she has a home to go back to and a friend to split the cab cost with, and the sun is shining and she hasn't had to kill or seduce anyone in almost a year, and she's starting to realize that this new freedom really does exist and isn't going to vanish the next time she blinks. For once in her life, the ground underneath her feet feels level.

And sure, she'll have to figure out this Dr. Greene stuff soon, but she'll have Clint to help her, and she knows he won't let her down.

So she gives him a small smile and touches his arm, just to remind herself that he's there, and she answers truthfully.

"With you here, I'm always good."


End file.
